Saturday, May 31, 2014

He didn’t need to recount them. There
were only 99, and he only had to quickly scan back over them to know which one
wasn’t there. He knew each one by name and he held each one in his heart, far
more precious to him than any market value a stranger would assign. And it was
the little one who had gone astray the jaunty, skittish one with one black leg
and a black patch on his face that always gave him a cock-eyed look. The
shepherd’s heart ached for his missing lamb. He knew just how much trouble
waited out there for someone so small and defenceless: wild beasts that would
lust for the taste of his flesh, treacherous paths where small feet could slip
and stray in the uncertain moonlight, the perils of fear and loneliness
pressing in upon him and overwhelming him with terror. There were steep
hillsides and strongly flowing streams and an all-devouring wilderness to
swallow up the tiny bleating of his despair.

Steeling himself to go out and face
the bitter night that was fast closing in, and gazing anxiously at the storm
clouds that were gathering even faster, the shepherd made his preparations. He
made sure that the rest of the flock were secure, huddled together, wool
against wool for warmth, with a strong stout fence around them that no predator
could breach, then he left the ninety nine safely penned against his return, girded
his loins, took up his crook, tightly fastened his cloak, and went forth into
the darkness.

It was a terrible night. Humanly he
thought of the warmth of a fire, and the comfort of having other men nearby. He
knew how they would laugh at him, their scorn blunted only by a hint of awe at
his stubbornness. None of them would do this. Why would a man who had 99 others
put his life on the line for a mere sheep? It made no sense, it wore no logic;
for love will always transcend logic, and make chaos of the heart’s account
books. It is such a debt that the whole world’s wealth counts as nothing in the
balance; and no hireling shepherd could ever understand. And holding such love
up before him, like a lantern to mark his path, he turned away from all the
temptations of warmth and laughter, and set his face towards the icy wind that
raked its talons across him.

He never told the story of that
night’s suffering: the stones that bruised his feet, the steep paths that
mocked his exhaustion, the sharp coldness of the rising streams he crossed. Nor
did he speak of the haunting fear that he might already be too late, or that
even his keen hearing might miss the sound of cries while the storm beat its
fury down upon him. But as the storms eventually blew over, and the first
paleness before dawn touched the sky, he found his missing lamb, caught in a
thornbush that leant over a terrible chasm. With infinite gentleness he soothed
its struggles, for how do you explain to a feckless lamb that the very thorns
that are hurting it are its only protection from a dreadful fall? There was
blood on his hands and feet, and a gash upon his side by the time his lamb was
safe. But there was no pain in his eyes as he lifted it tenderly to his
shoulders, only a joy too bright too look upon, for the lost had been found,
and his own was restored to him. And none who saw the gladness on his face as
he returned had any need to ask if it was worth what it had cost. They only
marvelled at his love!

Saturday, May 24, 2014

In the
beginning they danced for the wonder and the joy of it all. The morning stars
sang together, and the greater light and the lesser light danced in their
orbits of wonder. Creation was wonderfully fair, and the love of the Creator
shone out through every grass blade and blossoming twig. The waters danced in
the streams and the rivers, and the great waters moved in harmony. The mighty
beasts and the tiny ones woke into gladness. And it was very, very good.

But
sorrow came with sin, and there was grief and pain and horror, and Death, who
immobilises all dancing, made his terrible presence felt. Ruin and decay
appeared, step by grief-filled step, and all things under the sun fell away
from glory. And the deepest ruin was in the heart of man, where Death had set
up his throne, and ruled all things towards a grim and bitter misery. And
dancing was rare, except for the frantic gyrations with which the flesh would
try to forget, for a few moments, its grinding mortality. But here and there,
where the hints of a better Springtime broke through, where the smile of the
Father, who had not forgotten his world, was still reflected in the sunshine
and the blessed rain, and the soft light of the stars in the evening, hearts
would lift in praise, and, for a faltering footstep or two, they would stumble
in and out of the everlasting dance.

And the
ages passed, and the hearts of men grew weary, and death had dominion. But in
the darkest shadows a promise danced, and the time came for the promise to be
fulfilled. And so he came down from heaven, God himself, and his love danced
through every word and action, power and redemption and mercy dancing out a
story so glorious that those who had eyes to see were overcome with wonder. And
he danced, with feet weighed down with every dreadful burden of our mortality,
into confrontation with Death. And Death, who not abide the dance or the
promise, pinned him down with dreadful nails, to finish the dance and silence
the music of heaven once and for all.

But it
could not be. For Life broke Death, sin was accounted for, and, on that
glorious Resurrection morning, he danced out of the tomb, bringing glory and
fulfilment with him, and invited all of humanity to join in the new dance with
him. And they danced their way through hardship and persecution, through
discouragement and loss, and the world was not worthy of them. And still they
dance to the music of heaven, the love-song of the Father, though they stumble
and falter in their human clumsiness, for they have seen the beauty of their
Christ, and they would seek to dance his steps all the days of their lives.

And
they dance in hope, for they know that one day all things will be restored, and
there will be a new heaven and a new earth fresh from the hand of the Creator.
And the morning stars will sing again, and there will be no need of sun and
moon, for God himself will be their light, and by that light, enthralled by the
revelation of his beauty, they shall dance out his praise for all eternity.

Saturday, May 17, 2014

They expected him to be glad, because they hadn’t understood.
Wasn’t it in the nature of things for a man to rejoice when his enemy was cast
down? Didn’t a man lift up his heart at the destruction of one who had harassed
him for years, and pursued him with a personal malice that went far beyond the
limits of sanity, a malice that harried him into the desert wastelands, threw
spears at him, took away his wife, and did everything that the king of a small
country could possibly do to get rid of him? Everyone knew that it was only by
some miracle of divine preservation that David was still alive. Saul had used
every last, stretched atom of his bitter, twisted powers to destroy him, surely
it was only normal that David would be glad to hear that he was gone?

The man who brought the news certainly thought so. Worn with
the effort of trying to be the first with the news, fully expecting to be
rewarded, he arrived torn and dishevelled, and prostrated himself at David’s
feet, eager to honour the apparent new king. At David’s urging he repeated his
story in full, telling how Jonathan and his brothers had been killed by the
Philistines, and how, in the face of total defeat, Saul had despaired of his
own life and looked for death. Then, eager to ingratiate himself with the new
king, he embroidered the story of Saul’s final moments, claiming that he,
himself, at Saul’s urging, had struck the fatal blow!

It was a fatal mistake. David was outraged at his temerity,
that he, an Amalekite, an outsider, a member of an accursed race, had dared to
strike down the king Israel, the anointed of God! Saul, in his torment and
confusion had been a bitter enemy, but that was not how David perceived him. To
David, Saul was the chosen of God, the first King of Israel, anointed and
uniquely set apart. If his end had been ignominious, his beginning had been
glorious: he had led Israel to victory and had sought to follow the Lord, even
when he had totally misunderstood what God required. He had never renounced the
Lord, or fallen into the desperate idolatry that was the besetting sin of his
countrymen. And he had been the father of David’s dearest friend. There was no
way he could allow the self-confessed murderer of Saul to survive.

Instead, mourning deeply, David wrote a lament for the
fallen king. “Your glory, Oh Israel, lies slain on the heights. How the mighty
have fallen!” He could not despise his enemy or rejoice over his defeat.
Although Saul had made his life so difficult, he did not see this as a reason
to despise or fear him; why should he when he had already had the Lord’s sure
promise that one day he would be king in Saul’s place? The kingship was a gift
and honour given by God, a sacred thing which no one should lay rough hands
upon. Had they not seen, had they not known, that even when Saul was in his
power, David would not raise his hand against him? The death of Saul was not a
time of rejoicing, but a time to mourn.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

By the first time she saw then handsome stranger, he was
already in love with her younger sister, and her heart ached with the twisting
bitterness of her own inferiority, as once again, seemingly without any effort,
Rachel gained the prize, simply because she was born beautiful. Why would any
man give a passing glance at herself when Rachel was there? And yet she loved
him too, for not only was he very attractive, he was kind and thoughtful, and
she sensed that there was a deep hunger in his heart for God, that strange
dissatisfaction which she recognised so well, because her whole life was a
desperate prayer for blessing. But within a month he was betrothed to her
sister, and her father had wrung from the besotted man an agreement to work
seven years for Rachel’s bride price. Only for Rachel would a man pay so much!

So she tucked her dreams away, like so many lesser dreams
before, and got on with the chores of everyday. And if sometimes she was a bit
harsher than she should be? Well, it’s hard to keep all that disappointment
buried inside.

But she had reckoned without her father. He had another
plan, not out of any consideration for Leah, but because he was consumed by the
irresistible desire to drive an even better bargain, and rid himself of the
encumbrance of an unmarriageable daughter at the same time. So there she was,
heavily veiled, standing by Jacob’s side as they were married, and she had
never been so terrified as she was then, marrying the man of her dreams, her
heart’s desire, and wondering just how angry he would be when he woke up in the
morning and found he had been cheated.

And Jacob was angry, but not with her. He knew that her
father was responsible, but her father wasn’t concerned. He had planned it out
already, and at the end of Leah’s marriage week Jacob married Rachel, in return
for another seven years labour. And it was Rachel that he loved.

But Leah discovered, to her own astonishment, that she had
one gift that Rachel lacked – fertility, and she bore Jacob fine sons. But the
rivalry between the sisters continued for many years, competition so fierce
that they even had their maidservants bear Jacob’s children, as they tried to
keep score between themselves. And still, despite all, Jacob loved Rachel best.

Finally, Rachel died in childbirth, and the years of their
painful rivalry were over. But Jacob loved Rachel’s sons better than Leah’s,
for they were all he had left of the woman he had adored. But Leah no longer
ached and strained. She had as much of Jacob as he was able to give her, and
now that was enough, for through the bitter years she had learned that though
her father treated her as valueless trade goods, and her husband saw her as his
second best wife, she had found that God loved her, and in Him there was no
second best. And somewhere in those final years the Spirit of God had whispered
a truth into her heart that made her breath stop and her eyes overflow. It was
not from Rachel’s sons, fine men that they were, that redemption was to come,
but from the line of her own son, Judah. It was Leah, despised, overlooked
Leah, who would be a foremother of the King that God had promised.

Saturday, May 03, 2014

It should have felt triumphant. I had stood there in the
power and authority of the Lord, and seen the fire fall from heaven at my word!
For a moment I had felt all-powerful, as though I walked above the earth as
angels walk (though frightened also by the power of such fire as could burn the
very water in the trenches). At my command the awed people had taken and
slaughtered every last one of those pagan priests and prophets, and I felt the
exaltation of victory. I saw the rains come to relieve the great drought, and,
caught up in the exultant power of the Lord, I had run back, as fast as any
horse, all the way to Jezreel.

But I was still flesh and blood, and as that extraordinary
empowering withdrew from me, I was lost, feeble and alone. Only now, looking
back, do I realise the depths of the temptation to power and glory, the
temptation to demand the right to be something more than a humble and obedient
servant of the Most High. Very quickly I learned that the power, courage and
authority with which I had challenged, and defeated, the idolaters was not my
own. When Jezebel responded to her defeat with threats against my own life, the
only strength I found was the strength to run away as far as possible. Without
the spectacular intervention of God, I was as weak and frail as the most
vulnerable person in Israel. And so I fled.

I fled to Horeb. This was the place where God had
constituted Israel, this was the place where Moses was confirmed in his
leadership by some vision of the Lord Himself, the Lord whose face cannot be
seen by any living man. Maybe history would repeat itself and I could become
another Moses? After all, there had never been leaders of Israel who were more
unfit than Ahab and Jezebel! But I was exhausted, drained and faint, and the
fear of death had clouded my mind. Only the gift of food from an angel
sustained me on that terrible journey. For forty days and forty nights I ran,
into the heart of the wilderness, into the wilderness of my own pride and fear
and desperate longings. And for forty days and forty nights, God was silent,
and in that echoing silence I heard my own half-formed thoughts grow
uncomfortably loud.

It was only when I came to the mountain that the Lord spoke,
and asked me what I did there. Out of my mouth it poured, all my frustration
with recalcitrant Israel (as if God had not been bearing with them far, far
longer than I had!) God’s answer was strange. He bid me stand upon the mountain
in His presence (as Moses did? I wondered. And my terror was magnified, for he
unleashed before me all the powers of earth: wind, earthquake and fire (like
the fire upon Mount Carmel). And in all that power and terror, again God was
silent, and I knew then that these things of great power were not where the Lord
reveals His presence, for after these things of terror had passed by, in the absolute
quietness that followed, was the tiniest thread of a voice, the faintest whisper.
And in that silence, that weakness and stillness, I knew the presence of the
Lord of Lords and King of kings, and I trembled and covered my head. For He who
is mightiest can empty Himself to nothing, and in that silent place is a
mystery far more deep and wonderful than the power I had foolishly desired.

About Me

Mother of two grown up kids,and very long time married, after many years as a full-time mum, then a part-time theological student I'm now trying to be useful in my local church whilst working out what the next step is.I'm passionate about Jesus, treasure the people in my life and dream of being a preacher. I'm a would-be poet, a slightly eccentric cook, and an INFP (which must explain something).
And I'm a pickle: a weird shaped lump of something-or-other, a bit salty, a bit sweet, definitely an acquired taste, preserved by the grace of God and trying to add a bit of flavour to the blandness of modern life.